


Just a Taste

by DefenstrationProtestation (Sand_Cursive)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: AFAB Main Character, AFAB reader - Freeform, Default name MC, F/M, It's only Beel/Diavolo if you squint realllly hard, M/M, Sex does not happen in this one, Yuki the name is Yuki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/DefenstrationProtestation
Summary: Yuki is thirsty, and Beel is willing to share.
Relationships: Beelzebub (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Beelzebub/Diavolo (Shall We Date: Obey Me!), Beelzebub/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 118





	Just a Taste

Vanilla ice cream, devilberries, a strangely-coloured drink that passes vaguely for milk if you ignore the oddly acidic aftertaste. You pause with the milk(?) jug open in one hand, run your finger around the lip and taste it. And realize immediately you have no gauge to decide if it’s expired. You shrug, throw things together in barely eyed measurements with the unsurpassed confidence afforded to students in residence.

It’s early in the morning, maybe after midnight but you can’t be sure. You hesitate. Your bedroom may be the only one on this floor (and right next to the kitchen), but the blender is industrial-sized and powerful looking. You saw Beel using it once to make his post-workout smoothies and you could see the counter shaking. But . . . you’ve already put all the ingredients together. You’re past the point of exercising restraint.

You slot it neatly into the stand, fish the lid out from a kitchen drawer and struggle to secure it.

“Can I have some too?”

You start, your hand slamming down against the power button. An explosion of cream and berries shoots out at you, thick globs splattering in your eyes, your open mouth. You reach blindly for the switch, touch slippery with half-solid milkshake. A warm, bare arm reaches around you and flips it.

You swipe your fingers across your eyes, flicking milky sludge away. Something warm and dry wipes clumsily at your face.

“Thanks,” you say, taking the cloth in your sticky hands. You _drag_ it, scrubbing forcefully until you can blink with relatively little pain. You straighten when you’re sure you’re no longer in danger of dripping on the floor. “Beel! You scared me!”

“Sorry.” And he _sounds_ apologetic. His face is right in front of yours, and he tracks the slow drip of something as it traces the curve of your jaw, trails down the line of your neck. You sigh. 

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t do it on purpose.” But without the ever-present crunching, chewing, swallowing, crinkling of snacks he’s surprisingly quiet. You’ d made so much noise on your own, just walking around in bare feet. Still, it **is** probably around the time for his midnight snack. You should have been more aware.

You turn to the ingredients you’ve still got lined on the counter and try to decide if you have enough to try again. Tomorrow is a grocery day, you’re pretty sure. It should be fine.

“How much—” You’re pivoting, moving to face him and there’s a flash of dark purple that disappears beneath a downy head of orange and then his mouth is on your skin. No, not his mouth, his _tongue. Licking_ down your cheek, following the slowly moving trail of sugary liquid as it glides over your pulse and begins to dip between your collarbones. You freeze, the combination of his warm breath and the still cold ice-cream confusing your senses.

Until he opens his mouth around a particularly solid chunk and _sucks_ it off the top of your chest. You gasp, arching instinctively, your fingers scrabbling at shoulders that you’re realizing are bare. You were using his _tank top_ to wipe off your face. The cloth is still clutched in one hand and it’s setting damp puddles, not fluid enough to drip down his back. 

Every nerve sings hot as your mind finally manages a picture of the situation, and you fight to keep yourself from clutching him closer.

“Beel?” You’re trying not to moan but you’re clearly not succeeding. He finally straightens, the majority of the mess licked clean off. He meets your incredulous expression with complete innocence, his tongue darting out to catch cream around his lips. You can still feel the ghost of it pressing insistent against you, and feel your body flush. A missed drop crawls down the skin between your breasts.

“Mmmm, that was pretty good. Could you maybe add more devilberries?”

You gape at him. “I. What? Did you _lick_ me so you could give criticism on my milkshake recipe?”

“No?” He tilts his head at you. “It just seemed like a waste of food.”

And . . . that’s . . . so consistent with his character that you just sigh, unwind all at once and feel the tension un-lining from your shoulders. He _really_ doesn’t mean anything by it. A damning sense of disappointment begins to settle, and you do your best to shake it off, tamp down the ache between your legs. Still though, this was supposed to be _your_ milkshake.

You frown and look into his face. If he’s so casual about that level of behaviour, then . . . You reach your hands up and grab his cheeks. He watches, goes compliantly as you pull him down and kiss him. You press your tongue against the seam of his lips and he opens, accommodating, as you lick into his mouth. When you pull away he’s understandably confused. “Uh.”

“Well I made it for myself. I at least wanted a taste.”

“Oh.” He pauses, considering, and you try not to stare too obviously at the generous cut of his naked torso. “And?”

“And it could use more devilberries,” you concede grudgingly.

He grins at you as you move back, catching the soggy shirt that you toss at him. You pull at the neckline of your tank top, stained deep pink from the juice of all those half-blended fruits and sticky against your skin. “I liked this shirt.”

“I can get the stain out,” he offers easily, as you start washing the berries.

“Really?” you ask. You must look dubious, because he nods enthusiastically. “Yeah. I spill food on my clothes all the time. I’m really good at that.”

“Then, please. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Sure.” He holds his hand out and you stare at his palm uncomprehendingly.

“What. Like now?”

“If we wait too long, the stain will set,” he says, practical.

You pause. The only sound is the running tap before you reach over and turn it off. You shake the devilberries in a colander, drops hitting the metal of the sink like tinny music. “I. Okay. Thanks.”

Your hands hesitate at the hem of your shirt; you aren’t wearing anything underneath. But it’s hot, and it’s _Beel_ , and given his behaviour you’re fairly certain this will be, unfortunately, mundane. You pull the garment off decisively, unusually aware of every centimetre of skin as it’s illuminated by the warm kitchen lights. And hand it into his waiting palm. There’s a beat, a pregnant moment and you think that maybe he isn’t as unaffected as you’d thought when he gives the smallest shake of his head and follows it up with a smile.

“I’ll go wash it now. I’ll give it to you when it’s dried tomorrow.”

“Sure.” You half-raise your arms and then lower them, awkward. “But you’re coming back for your milkshake?” He pauses and you resist the urge to shake the cup. “I’ve already put way too much in here to finish by myself.”

“Of course. I won’t be that long.”

He jogs off, the stained clothing clutched in his large hands. You watch for a beat, distracted by the muscles of his back as he moves. The most tempting looking thing in the kitchen disappearing from view.

It only takes a few minutes or so to have everything ready. The rest of the milk-drink goes in, and then it’s just the devilberries, washed, stems cut. You hold off on the ice cream for now, since you don’t want the drink to get too warm before he returns. You cover it all with the lid just in case — you definitely don’t have enough ingredients to try doing this three times in a row. 

The feeling of sugar drying on your skin is starting to make you itch. Beel got the visible mess, but he never made an attempt at whatever dripped beneath your clothes. You pass a warm hand over the curve of your breast, accidentally imagine his mouth there instead and shiver. The firm pressure of his tongue, the credible skill of it—

You drop your arms, hold them tight at your sides. You’re alone in the middle of the kitchen, but you have no idea how he’d react to returning to the sight of you fondling yourself. A deep breath, and you march stiffly to your room. You at least want to wipe down.

It’s as much of a furnace in here as it was when you left. The damp towel you rub across your skin is blissfully cool, the moisture drying almost immediately in the ambient heat. You grab another shirt; a crop top with short sleeves that you vaguely remember being gifted by Asmo. An extra piece from one of his Devilgram photoshoots that he didn’t have space for in his closet. It’s a little short but as long as you don’t lift your arms too high . . .

Beelzebub is already in the kitchen when you come back, digging through the freezer. He turns when he hears you come in.

“You forgot the ice-cream.”

He’s crouched, eyeing just slightly up the edge of your shirt before he flicks to your face. There’s a little movement at the corner of his mouth that could be disappointment but you aren’t sure if it’s about the clothing or the perceived lack of frozen dairy in your milkshakes.

You pout. “I didn’t forget! I just didn’t want it to melt while I was waiting for you. Did you finish washing the shirts already?”

He nods, standing and kicking the freezer door closed. “Yeah. I said it wouldn’t take long.”

“You were faster than I expected.”

You notice, with no small amount of satisfaction, that _he_ hasn’t elected to get re-dressed.

He wanders over to the sink, rinsing the spoon you’d used for your first attempt. You stand beside him as he digs into the frozen block, lifting all the remaining cream out in a single square brick. You open your mouth. Close it. Honestly you don’t know what you were expecting.

He closes the carton, moving to put it back in the freezer while you secure the lid. Give it a good two, hard, smacks just in case. You’re about to pick up the whole thing when the front of your shirt rides dangerously up your chest. He’s tugging the hem at the back. “Beel?”

“Why do you have Asmo’s shirt?”

You pull it back down and the fabric slips out of his fingers. “He gave it to me. How do you know it’s his shirt?”

“It has his name on the back.”

“Does it?” You try futilely to read it over your shoulder.

“Yeah.”

You shrug. “I guess he didn’t want it anymore? I don’t have a lot of clothes down here, so I wasn’t going to refuse.”

“You don’t?”

“Well I didn’t exactly have any notice to pack a bag before I found myself in the Devildom. Lucifer’s let me buy a few things, but . . .”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Do you need more?”

“I don’t _need_ anymore. I can’t say it wouldn’t be nice to have a few more options, though.”

“Hmm.”

He doesn’t say anything else, meandering over to the stools at the kitchen table. He drops his forearms on the surface as you slide the blender cup along the counter.

“Why were you up?” He asks, watching as you maneuver it onto the stand. You struggle slightly; it’s at least a three litre container and significantly more full than the serving you’d originally made for yourself. It’s locking into place by the time he thinks to stand and help you.

You shake out your arms and shrug. “Too hot to sleep. I thought a milkshake would help.”

“Isn’t that too much sugar?” He furrows his brows.

“Yes. But I _wanted_ a milkshake.”

“Well.” You know he can understand that sentiment. “ At least now we can have one together.”

You set it to pulse and wince. It’s louder than you’d expected, and you cast an instinctive glance upwards. Beel follows your gaze and laughs.

“It’s okay. No one can hear the kitchen from upstairs.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Lucifer guaranteed it.” He stills, looking contrite. “Oh. Do I wake you up, sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” you say honestly.

Regret suffuses his posture and something tugs at your chest. His eyes are drooped; it’s like looking at a puppy caught doing something it didn’t realize was wrong. You reach over, place your hand on his arm and resist the very real urge to follow it up over the substantial curve of his bicep. “It’s fine, I fall back asleep pretty much immediately. So, no harm really.”

“I can try to be quieter.”

“You don’t have to .” You squeeze, briefly, and release him. “If it becomes an issue I’ll come straight into the kitchen to yell at you, okay?”

Really?”

“I promise.” You back away, turn the blender off. You plant your feet, ready to lift the thing, when Beel comes up from behind you and takes it easily with one hand.

“Sorry I made you do it before. I didn’t realize it would be heavy.”

“It’s okay.” You step to the side, grab the glasses you’d prepared while you were waiting for him. He only pours into one. You wait, holding the other glass out while he rifles through the drawers. He drops a striped black straw into your milkshake and grins.

“You don’t want a glass?”

He shrugs. “It’s easier if I just drink straight from the blender.”

“Oh.” You eye the blades hidden at the bottom. “Is that . . . safe?”

“It’s okay.” He reaches in with a fork and fishes them out. They drip thick globs of pink and he pops the whole thing in his mouth while you watch in mute horror. There’s a beat while you watch the bulge of it, shifting against his cheeks, and then he spits it into the sink; silver sharp and shining and completely clean. “They detach, so I won’t eat them by accident.”

“Mm-hmm.” As if _that_ was your concern. You take a distracted sip and shiver. This drink is _freezing_.

He notices and ushers you into a seat, hand warm on the skin of your back. “Are you cold?”

“A litte. But it’s good.” You watch him from the corner of your eye, teasing. “So I can finish it fine on my own, thank you.”

“Ah. I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know,” you cut him off. “I’m joking.”

He relaxes, settling into the seat beside you. He’s more than halfway done by the time you take another sip.

“Do you not get brain freeze?”

“What?” He pauses, and you laugh. He’s got a thick pink mustache heavy on his upper lip. Your tongue darts out; an empathetic reflex. You want to lick it off. “What’s that?”

“Like a . . . . headache. When you eat stuff that’s cold really quickly.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. At least, I don’t remember ever getting anything like that.”

“Lucky you.” You punctuate your statement with a long, dragging slurp, and wince when you feel the familiar stab at the base of your crown.

He watches for a moment, before tipping the whole cup back and finishing it in one go. You’re barely made a quarter of a dent in your own.

“Are you going back to sleep?”

He looks at you in surprise. “No. I’m still hungry.”

“Silly me,” you say sincerely.

He rifles through the fridge while you take another sip and try to pretend not to be physically affected.

“You are cold.”

“I didn’t think I could be,” you admit. “It’s so hot tonight.”

He stares, juggling a handful of plates on his arms. What looks like a sandwich, the remains of a cake, and a cup of custard that has his name clearly labeled along the side. He drops them all on the table in front of you.

“I think the milkshake will be more than enough for me tonight.”

“They’re for me.” He comes up behind you, circles his arms around you so he can reach his food. You straighten in your seat and back directly into his very solid, warm chest. “I just thought you’d feel better if I did something like this.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” He drapes an arm around your waist while he grabs the sandwich with his other hand. Holding you in place. You try to slow the measure of your heartbeats.“Doesn’t this make it hard to eat?”

He shrugs easily. “No. As long as you aren’t worried about getting crumbs in your hair.”

“I’ll just shake them off.”

You try to sip at your milkshake but you’re too distracted by the feeling of him, the naked connection where the strip of skin at your back meets his stomach. It’s a delicious appetizer; not quite enough. You have to forcibly restrain yourself from falling into his chest.

He’s already polished off the plate, starting in on the cake. There’s a shower: the grit of crumbs falling on your head. You take a deep breath but it only serves to push you closer against him, your mouth missing the protruding edge of your straw.

“I was wrong,” you say. He looks down at you, concerned, cake already reduced to a scant mouthful. “Wrong about what?”

“I can’t finish it after all.” You offer him your glass - still more than half-full. “Can you do it for me?”

“Yeah!”

He takes it willingly, tosses the straw over his shoulder in the vague direction of the trashcan and downs the rest of it in two gulps. You watch the muscles in his throat as he swallows.

He’s grinning easily at you when he surfaces, popping the empty glass on his similarly cleaned plates. There’s another smear of milkshake on his face. He licks, tongue almost long enough to clear it all away. Without thinking you lean back, wind an arm around his shoulder and pull yourself up. You kiss the remaining drop off the corner of his mouth. It’s warmed by the heat of his skin, and it slips liquid down your throat. “What?”

“You still had a little on your face.”

“Oh.” He frowns, and you wonder briefly if he’s upset that you’ve stolen a tiny, _tiny_ portion of his drink. He shakes his head and smiles. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

From here you can see more evidence of his careless eating habits. There are crumbs dusting the tops of his pecs, something like icing along the sharp edge of his jaw. A spot of something bright catches your eye in his bangs, and you reach up and pinch the ends of his hair between two fingers. The hem of your shirt rides up, up. You’re close enough that he can feel, if not see, the flesh as it’s exposed, skin rubbing right against his torso. He takes a breath and his chest brushes against yours and you drop your arm. Your fingers are red, stained with frosting.

“How did you do that?” you ask, too quiet, holding them up for his inspection.

He squints down at you. “I don’t know.”

He’s too close. You’re on the verge of kissing him again, you can feel it, but you’ve run out of plausible excuse.

“Do you want me to keep you company?” you ask softly.

“Hmm?” He hasn’t released you.

“While you finish your snack.”

He shakes his head and steps back and the kitchen is suddenly a little colder. You don’t wrap your arms around yourself, but the temptation is there.

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t want to keep you up.”

“Are you sure?”

He smiles, goes to pat you on the shoulder and hesitates as he remembers the cake still on his hands. “Yeah. I’ll clean up before I go to sleep, don’t worry.”

“That’s not . . .” You shake your head. “Okay. Goodnight, then, Beel. Sweet dreams.”

He waves as you move to the doorway, starting in on the custard. “Sweet dreams.”

You can still hear him through the thin walls, even as you’re laying back against your sheets. Rifling through the cupboards, opening drawers, grabbing a drink. The long rushing of water as he cleans the dishes, the gentle clank as he puts them all away. Then soft footfalls as he leaves, turns the lights off and wanders back to his own bed.

When you fall asleep, you dream of Beelzebub feeding you chocolate covered devilberries with his mouth.

* * *

  
You turn that night over in your mind an embarrassing amount over the next week. The way he’d looked, the way he’d felt, the way he’d _tasted_. It’s becoming a distraction in all the worst ways; you catch yourself doodling milkshakes and custards in the margins of your homework.

Meanwhile, sweet, _infuriating_ Beelzebub maintains exactly the same relationship you’ve always had: friendly, thoughtful, hungry enough to have bankrupt you three times over within one week. You’re almost certain, in fact, that he’s forgotten all your pseudo-kisses until a morning a fortnight later.

You’d been a little late coming down; Levi had enlisted your help with some limited-run event in Mononoke Land, and had pushed you into staying up way past your usual time. It was all well and good for him, since he was just going to make today one of his online class days, but you didn’t have the same luxury.

By the time you’d managed to make it to the dining room, the majority of the spread had been picked clean.

Asmo takes one look at you and frowns, eyes zeroing in on the bags heavy under your eyes. He purses his lips with disapproval. “Oh, you’re so late this morning! Look at your face!”

“Levi kept me up,” you say, waving a lethargic hand. You can sense the start of a suggestive comment on his lips and speak over him. “He’s lucky he doesn’t have to go to school today.”

You pick at the dregs of scrambled eggs, wincing when an eye rolls out. There’s half a slice of toast that looks passable, and you grab that instead. Satan sighs, apologetic. “I bought the new volcano rind cupcakes from Madame Scream’s yesterday to share for breakfast, but I think Beel ate the last one. I would have made him save it if I thought you were coming down."

“Sorry,” Beel says, clasping his hands. You let out a soft breath, smiling as you ruffle his hair.

“It’s okay. I would have liked to try one but I maybe I can pick one up after school?”

He pauses, brightening. “Do you want a taste right now?”

“Beel,” Asmo starts, looking horrified. “No.”

“I just saw you finish the last one. Please tell me you aren’t going to regurgitate it,” Satan clarifies.

“No! Of course not.”

You roll your eyes. Like Beel would ever give up the contents of his stomach.

“Then—”

But they’re cut off when Beel reaches for you, circles your arm gently with one hand and tugs you down.

And kisses you.

You freeze for all of a half-second while your sleep-deprived brain attempts to play catch up. Then you close your eyes, place one hand on his cheek and lick into his mouth. _Noticeably_.

The entire table goes completely silent as you pull away (with a degree of reluctance you hope isn’t too obvious). You wet your lips, tilting your head as you try to compartmentalize the tastes. “Pretty good! A little bit more ashy than I was expecting, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised when the flavour is called ‘volcano rind’.”

“Do you still want to get one for yourself later?” Beel asks.

You take a bite of your toast. “I think so.”

“Great! I’ll come with you.”

The rest of the brothers are nearly frozen with shock. All conversation has stopped, and Lucifer is, predictably, the first to resume it.

“Please refrain from making out at the breakfast table.”

“I was just letting her try the cupcake,” Beel protests innocently.

“That’s not—” Satan starts, but Asmo interrupts him. “Ooh, can _I_ have a taste too?”

Beel frowns. “Not you.”

You laugh, and before Asmo can begin a whining, wheedling campaign in earnest, Belphie and Mammon walk into the room, the elder brother driving the sleepy youngest forwards. You take the distraction as an opportunity to slip out first, toast still in your mouth. You’ll have to get something more substantial from the school cafeteria before classes start.

Beel pushes back from his seat, going with you. “I’ll buy you breakfast on the way,” he offers.

“Thanks Beel.”

He shrugs. “I did eat all the food. Besides, this way I can grab something else too, for class.”

You smile, tuck your hand into his arm. You can hear Mammon behind you as you’re walking out.

“Whaddaya all quiet for?”

* * *

It becomes too regular.

When Luke brings a basket of inventive sweets, each piece distinct. When Levi orders limited edition snacks capitalizing on anime merchandising. When you and the twins are holed up in their room, watching a movie while Beel munches behind you. Even when you see something that looks particularly delicious that you have no hope of finishing without his intervention. He’ll eat without restraint, and you don’t stop him. It seems cruel to reduce his meal when his hunger is so much more urgent than your own. Instead you let him swallow things, down to the last bite.

If you really want a taste, he’ll let you have it.

“Just save her a piece next time!” Mammon yells, shoving your face bodily away from Beel’s. You scowl at him, rubbing at your sore cheek.

Beelzebub only frowns. “But this way I don’t have to.”

“Ya can’t just k-k-kiss her whenever ya don’t wanta share!”

“He _is_ sharing,” you say, shoving him back.

“Y-y-you’re putting your, your t-tongue inside his mouth! That’s not sharing!”

“It’s sharing something,” Asmo says idly, filing his nails at the table.

Beel is already taking a drink, the conversation behind him. You frown at Mammon, licking your lips, and notice the way he tracks the movement. “Do you want a taste too, Mammon?”

“I-I-I,” he stutters, going impossibly red. Asmo perks up behind him. “I do!”

“Beel already said he wouldn’t do it for you.” You cross your arms over your chest.

“I don’t wanta kiss _Beel_!” Mammon yelps.

“Wait, Beel, was that the last firecracker candy?”

“Oh. Yeah. Did you want to try this one too?”

He’s already leaning towards you, hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. Mammon sputters indignantly and slaps his arm away.

“STOP IT!”

* * *

You stop short, nearly bumping into a passing demon in the hallway. There’s a high _squeak_ as the soles of your shoes pivot on the tiled floor, and you wince as you crane your head, trying to see who called you.

Barbatos is walking swiftly in your direction, a package tied in fine ribbon held in one hand. “I’m glad I caught you. I’m sorry to impose, but I was hoping you might be able to do me a favour.”

“If I’m capable, sure.”

He regards you, his mouth set with a wry twist. “I’d like to think I wouldn’t ask you to do something unreasonable.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you say, shrugging. “You’ve never asked for anything from me before.”

“Very true. In any event, all I need is to have this package brought to the Student Council room. I would do it myself, but there’s an urgent matter that requires my attention first.”

“Is that all? Of course, Barbatos, I’m happy to help.”

“Thank you.” He inclines his head at you: polite reflex. You take the package and he’s immediately moving away, just as quickly as he’d arrived.

You frown after him. He always looks so busy . . . you wonder if the butler of the Demon Prince ever gets any vacation time.

You’re shaken from your imaginings (would he be the type to wear a Hawaiian shirt on the beach? . . . Would he be the type to _go_ to a beach?) when you bump into Levi, coming from the opposite hallway, face buried in his gaming device.

“Hey!” He starts, before he sees you stumbling backwards. His hand shoots out, steadies you at the forearm. “You should be more careful. . . . Are you okay?”

“Fine, thanks Levi.”

He nods, letting go. “There’s a student council meeting today, so we’re all going to be there. If you want to go home early you’ll have to catch Solomon or Simeon before they leave.”

“It’s okay. Barbatos asked me to bring something to the council room, so I was thinking I might just wait until you guys are done and we can go home together?”

“Are you sure?” His head is already back down, fingers tapping at the controls of his game. “It might be long. I don’t know when we’re supposed to be finished.”

“I don’t mind. I can just do some schoolwork while I wait.”

You walk a moment in silence, subtly nudging the demon to steer him around obstacles. He goes compliantly where you direct him until he nearly wanders too far to the side and trips over a chair left by the side of the hallway. You yank his arm, and his hand slips, discordant music playing from his device.

“You killed me!” He snaps accusingly, as you back slightly away.

“Sorry! I just, you were going to—”

“It took me almost _thirty seconds_ to get to this boss. Now I’ll have to restart from the checkpoint!” 

“That’s . . . not that long.”

“I was doing a speedrun! This is going to drag my overall time!”

“Sorry! But if you’d tripped I feel like you’d be dead either way.”

He huffs. “I could have paused.” But he seems less irate, so you’ll take that as a win.

He slips the device in his jacket pocket, sighing and looking deeply put-upon.

“So, what is this meeting about, anyway?”

He shrugs. “How should I know?”

“. . . Because you’re on the Student Council?”

“I don’t pay attention to this stuff.”

“So why do you even go to the meetings?”

“What a good question.” He brightens instantly. “Hey, you should tell Lucifer that you don’t think I need to go.”

“I already said I was sorry! At this point it’s just petty to try to kill me.”

“Come on, pretty please? I’ll give you one of the limited items I got from the Mononoke Land event last weekend.”

“I don’t need it.”

You’re still bickering as he pushes open the doors, letting you step through first, box in your hands. The occupants of the room all turn to look at you.

“What are you doing here?” Satan asks, walking over.

“Well, if you think I don’t need to be here,” Levi says from behind you, already turning. He runs face-first into Lucifer, just arriving.

“Oh? And where do you think you’re going?”

You leave Levi to his fate, going over to the side table and finally relieving yourself of Barbatos’ package. Belphegor is standing there, leaning sleepily against the wall. You give him a gentle pat on the head. “Sleepy?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

You pout at him as he steps closer and drops his head on your shoulder. “You can’t be mean and then expect to use me as a pillow.”

“Forgive me, I’m tired.”

You frown but scratch lightly at his crown, and he sinks further against you.

“Hey! Hands off!”

The council room is quickly dissolving into the typical chaos you’ve become accustomed to. Mammon pries Belphie off you, Lucifer corrals Levi into his seat. Barbatos silently walks in in the midst of a particularly loud disagreement about either inappropriate contact or inappropriate conduct, you aren’t sure which. You wave him over when you see the flash of his green hair.

“I brought the box. I left it on the side table over there, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine, thank you. I trust it wasn’t too much trouble?”

“No trouble at all.” You beam at him. “If you ever need anything else, please let me know.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I’ll do my best not to impose. Will you be staying for the meeting?”

“If that’s alright. I was just going to wait for them, but I can do it in the hallway if necessary.”

“No need. I’ll bring you a chair, if you don’t mind sitting to the side.”

“Not at all. Thank you.”

He nods, bustling off to some hidden door at the back of the room, and you wonder if maybe you should have insisted on getting it yourself. It always feels vaguely uncomfortable to have him . . . waiting on you.

The main doors suddenly burst open, and all conversation falls silent. You turn to see Lord Diavolo striding in, mouth stretched wide in a grin. “Excellent! You’re all here!” He turns to you, surprise crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Ah, and our human exchange student! What brings you to the council room?”

“I was just going to wait for some of your council members. I hope that’s alright?”

“Of course. Although I can’t imagine the proceedings will be particularly entertaining for you.”

“Thank you, but I’ll be fine. I was just going to do some schoolwork . . .”

“How responsible.” He laughs, eyes lighting when his butler materializes beside you with a chair in one hand. “Perfect. Barbatos, do we have enough to share?”

“Of course, my Lord.”

You’re going to ask him what he means when he moves smoothly to the table behind you. And stops. A RAD uniform is doubled over, half-buried in the open box. “Oh dear.”

Beel straightens, suddenly aware of the room’s eyes on him. “Oh. Uh?”

Lucifer sighs, long-suffering. “Beel.”

“Sorry.” He hangs his head, and you resist the urge to pet him like a puppy. “I saw Yuki bring it in and I thought—”

“Barbatos asked me to bring it,”you interrupt, biting down your mingled fear and amusement. “I can run out and replace it? What was it?”

“We wouldn’t send you out on your own.” Satan shakes his head, while Barbatos murmurs something along the lines of “Madame Scream’s limited edition seasonal pudding tarts.”

“And I was so looking forwards to trying it,” Lord Diavolo says on a sigh. “Maybe next time, then.”

You’re looking at Beel, about to offer some other inane solution, so you see it. You can _see_ it. The apologetic cant of his head, the slight tilt to his mouth. You can predict his next action and this is the moment you realize all sense of self-preservation has really and truly fled you. Because instead of making any move to stop him, you pull out your D.D.D. and open the camera.

In all fairness, it really is a spectacular video. The confident curve of his spine, the surprise that cracks along the other’s face, the easy, willing acceptance of the moment. You can even see the second their mouths part, the careful prodding of tongue. You send the video to yourself, back it up on the cloud, your human email, wherever you can think to secure it because you know without a doubt someone is going to stand over your shoulder and make you delete it.

The room collectively holds its breath while Diavolo straightens up, looking pensive. A quick flick of the tongue over his lips and then he turns to his butler. “Delicious. Barbatos, order another set for the castle. . . . Maybe two.”

To his credit, he doesn’t bat an eye, only bows and says, “Of course, my Lord.”

He turns away as you settle numbly in your seat, shaking with laughter you aren’t foolish enough to loose. The D.D.D. in your hand vibrates immediately, and the curt message of your name appears below the texter’s I.D..

Barbatos: Could you please explain what just happened.

Barbatos: I did also notice you taking a picture. I will have to ask you to delete it immediately.

You bite your lip and grin. 

Of course. Should I send you a copy first?

Barbatos: . . . 

Barbatos: Yes, thank you.


End file.
